Render Unto Moloch v2 (MtAW)

[Maugan Ra]

Render Unto Moloch
A Mage: The Awakening Quest


​

There are patterns in the grain.

Blinking, you rub your eyes, trying to chase the images from your mind. It's no good. The second you lower your hand they reappear, crawling in from the edges of your vision to dance across the face of the old wooden desk.

"Don't have time for this…" you mutter, keeping your voice subdued for fear of the librarian's baleful gaze. Nowhere else on the campus can you find the material necessary for your essay, and if she takes sufficient umbrage with your conduct and casts you out your chances of passing this course are lost.

Grunting, you lift your eyes from the wood and its tantalizing secrets and focus instead on the laptop's glowing screen. It burns with pure white light, a searing doorway of light that brands itself into the back of your eye, but you know better than to turn it down to something more comfortable. The last thing you need is to strain yourself staring at a too-dim screen at some ungodly time at night; the glasses you can get on the system won't do nearly enough to counteract the blurred vision or the pain of a migraine that comes from focusing too hard.

Slowly, with grim determination, you touch finger to keyboard and continue to type.

I demonstrate, in the first place, that the state of men without civil society (which state we may properly call the state of nature) is nothing else but a mere war of all against all; and in that war all men have equal right unto all things...

God, the men you cite have been dead for a thousand years and you still want to choke the life from the contemptuous little shits. How is it that ten centuries or more can pass without the words in the mouths of your betters changing so much as an inch? You don't need to pour through dusty tomes and ancient manuscripts to hear such philosophy espoused today; you need only speak to your dearly beloved classmates. They'd be more than happy to expound at some length on the need for a strong hand to keep society in line, and if you were lucky they might even remember the veil the words so that it wasn't completely obvious who exactly they were talking about.

You wouldn't bet on it though. If there's one thing a collection of rich young cunts can be counted on to do, it's to remind you of your place; namely, below theirs.

Sighing, you sit back in your chair. This isn't working. You're just getting distracted, your mind bouncing from topic to topic, unable to stay in one place long enough to actually get any amount of genuine work done. How long have you been in here now? You came in after your last lecture, but already the sky outside the window is black and blue, like a day old bruise. Hours, then, at least, and all you have to show for it is half a page of barely coherent gibberish fit only to be passed around the staff room for a good old fashioned laugh. That's bad, even for your worst day, and you don't know what's causing it.

Grimly, you think of Jen and her gift, the handful of tiny white capsules held in a sun-bronzed hand. A little pick-me-up, she'd called it, something to give you the edge you needed to get through yet another late night of writing and research. It sounded like just the sort of thing you needed, and given the stakes you'd taken the offer without a second thought, handing over a pretty major chunk of what passed for your living allowance for the privilege. You'd never have thought badly of Jen in the past, but… did she slip you something bad, by accident or design? If she did, what are you going to do about it?

Shaking your head firmly, you banish the thought from your mind. Jen is one of a tiny handful of people here who've treated you as anything more than an amusing pet that someone taught to read; if you start doubting her at the first excuse it won't be long before you break down entirely. Maybe you just had a bad reaction…

Sighing, you lean forwards and click the little 'save' icon on your pathetic excuse for an essay. You forgot to do that once, and the memory still haunts you. That done, you turn off the power and fold down the laptop's screen. No use forcing yourself to work when you have so little to show for it, after all. You'll just head back to the halls, catch a quick break and pass out for an hour or two on your skinny little bed, give your mind a chance to rest before you get back to it. You'd like to just give up entirely, take the failure and use the time it buys you to get some proper sleep, but… no. You're the first in your family to ever make it so far, and you won't go crawling back to them a failure.

Fighting the leaden feeling in your limbs, you slide the laptop into the battered old backpack you use to carry your stuff. Everyone else in your class has some kind of fancy leather shoulder bag, but you could never hope to afford the kind of prices people charge for that shit in the capital, so you make do with what you have. Story of your life, really, but at least it matches the rest of your outfit; quilted jacket with a sports logo across the back, cheap t-shirt with a hole or two, faded jeans and a pair of battered old trainers. You stand out like a sore thumb in the halls of power and privilege, but then you were never going to fit in anyhow, and the only thing worse than not wearing a suit around here is wearing a cheap one badly, so…

Croak.

You look up, surprised, and it takes you a few moments to realise that you're not hallucinating. Perched atop one of the stacks is an old, angry looking bird - a raven, you think, though you don't know enough to say for sure. It peers down at you with the same kind of imperious look in its eye as a hundred students who cross your path each day, but unlike them its plumage isn't nearly so refined. Its feathers are torn and fraying, all but ready to fall out at the slightest breeze, and there's a weakness to its cry that tells of age and poor health just barely concealed.

Croak.

"Best get lost, mate," you say in a quiet voice, smiling despite yourself, "or they'll stick you in a pie and serve you to the king."

Wait, shit, was that blackbirds? Ah, what does it matter. Shaking your head you sling the backpack over one shoulder and pick up the hefty tome you were referencing throughout the night. The staff will flay you alive if you just leave it lying around and they'd sooner sell their own daughters than see you carry the books from these halls, so that means you have to put the work back where you found it before you go. Hopefully the bird doesn't shit all over it in the meantime.

Making your way back along the stacks, you do your best to cudgel your brain into remembering where exactly you got the book in your hands from. It's an ancient looking thing bound in green leather than held shut with brass clasps, but that could describe any number of the tomes and chronicles displayed on the shelves around you. Each bookshelf has a little metal plaque detailing the types of works stored within, but apparently the librarians went for poetry over precision and you can't make heads or tails of the directions displayed therein.

"Mysteries of the fifth gate... ruminations on order... the metaphysical heritage of the old city?" You speak the categories aloud, just about resisting the urge to snort in disbelief. You've clearly wandered into the part of the library meant for the philosophy students, or maybe some of the historians. Either way you won't be finding your law texts here, and at this point you cannot be arsed to keep looking for them. You'll take the work to the front desk and ask them to put it back for you - it's better than leaving it in the aisles, and hey, it's what the old bats are actually being paid for, isn't it?

Croak

The fucking bird is following you, it seems, though… no, this is a new one. The feathers are far glossier, the look in its beady little eyes notable sharper. A relative, or just a hanger on? You consider the thought for a moment, then realise you're daydreaming about the family tree of a fucking bird and force yourself to keep moving. The air in the library is freezing, and you think some of the shelves are actually developing a faint layer of condensation across their wooden frames. Did someone leave all the windows open? Clearly they must have done something of the kind, which makes it all the more important that you put the book back and leave, quickly.

It'd be just your luck to get blamed for this shit.

The library's front desk sits just inside the front entrance, surrounded by a round counter cut from a single block of granite. The stone hasn't been polished or refined in any particular fashion, something which you can only put down to some strange artistic statement, but right now you're more concerned by the fact that there aren't any librarians in sight. Come to think of it you didn't catch sight of any other students on the way here, which is very odd - normally there'd be at least a dozen or so of your peers clustered together around every table, desperately trying to cram enough knowledge into their soft unyielding minds to satisfy the demands of the curriculum.

Frowning, you set the book down on the countertop, looking back and forth as you try to find someone to deliver it to. There's an old brass bell sitting just next to it, the sort of thing you slap to produce a charming little ding sound, but something tells you the attention that ringing that would draw is the sort you'd be better off avoiding.

"Fuck it," you mutter, leaving the book where it lays and turning away, "not my problem anyway."

The doors to the library are the sort of grand, sweeping edifices you'd expect to see in a fantasy novel. Made of some dark polished wood and decorated with the sign of the rose and the thorn, they stand at least three times your height and more than twice your width, so large that you half expect there to be an actual door hidden off somewhere to one side that you're actually meant to use. Two statues of old men in rusted armour stand on either side, looking down at all who pass beneath their feet with expressions of disdain, but neither seeks to stop you as you lean against the wood and push it open.

A flurry of snow hits you full in the face as you open the door, the sting bright and sharp against your bare skin; winter must have come early this year, and it takes you a good thirty seconds or more of blinking to properly adjust your eyes to the harsh morning light. Eventually you lower the hand from your eyes and see…

Article:

What do you see?

[ ] A Stage; beyond it, a theatre long since abandoned. Velvet seats stand in long rows, encrusted with webs, dust lies in piles inches thick. Chains of silver and gold hang from your wrists and coil around your neck, and overhead old floodlights halo you in burning light. Your audience is old and emaciated, clad in finery several centuries out of date, and they stare at you with hollow eyes.

[ ] A Court; the walls are decorated with portraits of your parents, smiling down at you. In the jury sit a dozen caricatures, with bloodshot eyes and teeth stained brown from drink. They watch you hungrily, fixated on your every word, while in the judge's box your twin sits and watches your fumbling speech with naked contempt.

[ ] A Museum; you are a guest here, wandering starstruck through halls lined with portraits and plaques. A hall of statues is being renovated while you watch, each stone form replaced by one a tiny bit older, a tiny bit less refined. You can see the originals, you know, held for posterity in the archive, but that means asking the curator for permission, and his skinless face and cloak of grey discomfort you in a way you cannot quite explain.

[ ] A Church; there is a priest and congregation, of course, but they are made of wax and wood. True faith left this place behind years ago, and now only the light remains. It streams down from on high, broken and repainted by windows of stained glass that stretch almost to the ceiling, and under its touch you could almost fool yourself into thinking the withered mannequins are strong and vital once again.

[ ] A Zoo; you walk between exhibits and around the edge of great enclosures, studying and being studied in turn. Here a horde of rats dig a warren in broken stone, there a flight of pigeons wheel back and forth between a hundred wooden aviaries. There are people all around you, cooing and laughing over the antics of those they came to observe, but they cannot see what you can. The horizon has sprouted bars, and from beyond giants with eyes of fire watch you with an inquisitive gaze.

You may vote for two of the above options. Only one can win, and the vote will be counted by line; the twin vote is simply a measure taken in hopes of reducing the need for tactical voting.

-/-

Welcome, one and all, to Render Unto Moloch - or, to be specific, the second version of it. The first one was posted back in February of this year, generated a lot of interest, and then died before it could even get a second update after @ManusDomini betrayed me by actually needing to work for a living. So I decided I would give it another go, and this time I'd actually have the chance to use some of the notes I made and at least get it to the second update.

So, with all that said, this is a narrative quest set in the New World of Darkness - specifically the world of Mage: The Awakening. You play as James Green, a young man from humble origins who has somehow managed to get himself enrolled at a prestigious University in the City of London, where he studies Law in the hopes of making it his profession.

This quest has been designed specifically to avoid requiring any great knowledge of the World of Darkness or its specific sub-settings; our protagonist is almost entirely ignorant of the truth of the world around him, and as time passes and he is introduced to its various facets so too will you the readers. As the quest progresses I will create a series of info-posts, which can be found under the 'informational' threadmark up above; the first, on the various paths and what the above votes mean in practice, can be found in the following post.

First thing's first - the vote above, which determines how our young Mage sees the world and what form his magic takes. Remember, you can vote for two options, but only one will win.

 

[Maugan Ra]

So the last time this quest debuted there was a lot of debate over which vote corresponded to which path. In the interests of not making people vote under false pretenses, I'm going to take the opportunity to lay out the answers for you now. Note the complete lack of real mechanics here; this is a narrative quest and every Path is as viable and as powerful as the others, just in different ways, so I'll be focusing on what the votes mean in terms of mindset, of magical flavour and of what they imply about the quest to come.

The Stage is the path of the Acanthus; the enchanter, the witch. It is the path of fate and destiny, of seeing the chains that bind all men and breaking your own on an altar of will, of stepping outside the established order and making your own way in the world. Your magic will be concerned with patterns and fate, with the manipulation of chance and the vagaries of prophecy. You will be less adept at wielding blunt force and dramatic expressions of power, and the quest will focus on social expectation and the niche that the world seeks to press each of us into.

The Court is the path of the Mastigos; the warlock and the psychonaut. It is the path of thought and perception, of mind over matter, of knowing what drives you and binding even your basest urges to the will of your enlightened intellect. Your magic is almost entirely mental, focused on an awareness of thoughts and the world around you, of tracing connections and manipulating beliefs. You will be less adept at working with physical material, and the quest will focus on the personal pressures and motivations of the various characters in the story.

The Museum is the path of the Moros; the alchemist and the necromancer. It is the path of death and transformation, of reaching into the past and building for the future, of perfection and decay. Your magic is that of perception, of seeing any given person or thing at every stage of their existence simultaneously, and acting on the point that best serves your needs. You will have difficulties with the spiritual and all things divorced entirely from the mortal world, and the quest will focus heavily on matters of legacy; of tradition, of familial inheritance, and of the bloody history of the City of London.

The Church is the path of the Obrimos; the thaumaturge and theurge. It is the path of wonder, of the manipulation of power and the shaping of magic at its most basic and fantastic. Your magic is the forging of wonders and the crash of the storm, for you are granted mastery over force and energy itself, and must wield such tools with an artisan's care... or the insight of an engineer. You will have difficulties with more stagnant magic, particularly that of death and the world beyond, and the quest will focus primarily on what it means to be handed the keys to heaven and the consequences of using them.

Finally, the Zoo is the path of the Thyrsus; the shaman and the ecstatic. It is the path of life at its most primal, of blood and flesh and soul, of man and god and the borders between. Your magic is a living, breathing thing, the ability to see all the world as one gigantic living being and act on it as such. You will have difficulties with more subtle magic, especially in the realm of thoughts and principles, and the quest will focus on London-as-ecosystem and dealing with the many and varied Gods of the Old City.

 

[Spear]

[X] A Museum; you are a guest here, wandering starstruck through halls lined with portraits and plaques. A hall of statues is being renovated while you watch, each stone form replaced by one a tiny bit older, a tiny bit less refined. You can see the originals, you know, held for posterity in the archive, but that means asking the curator for permission, and his skinless face and cloak of grey discomfort you in a way you cannot quite explain.

The deep, dark underbelly of traditions and inheritance in London!

[X] A Zoo; you walk between exhibits and around the edge of great enclosures, studying and being studied in turn. Here a horde of rats dig a warren in broken stone, there a flight of pigeons wheel back and forth between a hundred wooden aviaries. There are people all around you, cooing and laughing over the antics of those they came to observe, but they cannot see what you can. The horizon has sprouted bars, and from beyond giants with eyes of fire watch you with an inquisitive gaze.

I guess the Shadow is interesting too.

 

[notanautomaton]

[X] A Zoo
[X] A Church

 

[Shebe Zuu]

[X] A Museum; you are a guest here, wandering starstruck through halls lined with portraits and plaques. A hall of statues is being renovated while you watch, each stone form replaced by one a tiny bit older, a tiny bit less refined. You can see the originals, you know, held for posterity in the archive, but that means asking the curator for permission, and his skinless face and cloak of grey discomfort you in a way you cannot quite explain.

[X] A Zoo; you walk between exhibits and around the edge of great enclosures, studying and being studied in turn. Here a horde of rats dig a warren in broken stone, there a flight of pigeons wheel back and forth between a hundred wooden aviaries. There are people all around you, cooing and laughing over the antics of those they came to observe, but they cannot see what you can. The horizon has sprouted bars, and from beyond giants with eyes of fire watch you with an inquisitive gaze.

 

[EarthScorpion]

[X] A Zoo; you walk between exhibits and around the edge of great enclosures, studying and being studied in turn. Here a horde of rats dig a warren in broken stone, there a flight of pigeons wheel back and forth between a hundred wooden aviaries. There are people all around you, cooing and laughing over the antics of those they came to observe, but they cannot see what you can. The horizon has sprouted bars, and from beyond giants with eyes of fire watch you with an inquisitive gaze.

The Zoo - and the Thrysus - is the preferable option here. The nWoD spirit world is mega cool.

The nWoD spirit world described in Shadows of the UK is even cooler.

A Shadow (the Other) filled with centuries - millennia - of human interaction. Spirits of plague haunting modern hospitals, now feeding off Strep B. A Gauntlet that's way, way too thin - nearly breaking through into the real world. Weird anomalies. Fox spirits rummaging through bins, wearing a stained suit and tie.

Definitely the best.

[X] A Museum; you are a guest here, wandering starstruck through halls lined with portraits and plaques. A hall of statues is being renovated while you watch, each stone form replaced by one a tiny bit older, a tiny bit less refined. You can see the originals, you know, held for posterity in the archive, but that means asking the curator for permission, and his skinless face and cloak of grey discomfort you in a way you cannot quite explain.

The other vote is for Moros, because the UK has tonnes of cool ghosts and a Twilight that's overflowing with such things. Plus, everyone loves animating suits of armour and zombies, right?

 

[Valkhir]

[X] A Zoo
[X] A Church

 

[Broken25]

[X] A Museum; you are a guest here, wandering starstruck through halls lined with portraits and plaques. A hall of statues is being renovated while you watch, each stone form replaced by one a tiny bit older, a tiny bit less refined. You can see the originals, you know, held for posterity in the archive, but that means asking the curator for permission, and his skinless face and cloak of grey discomfort you in a way you cannot quite explain.

[X] A Church

 

[Chronobreak]

[X] A Zoo

 

[toxinvictory]

Glad to see this going again. As for my vote ...

[X] A Zoo; you walk between exhibits and around the edge of great enclosures, studying and being studied in turn. Here a horde of rats dig a warren in broken stone, there a flight of pigeons wheel back and forth between a hundred wooden aviaries. There are people all around you, cooing and laughing over the antics of those they came to observe, but they cannot see what you can. The horizon has sprouted bars, and from beyond giants with eyes of fire watch you with an inquisitive gaze.

[X] A Museum; you are a guest here, wandering starstruck through halls lined with portraits and plaques. A hall of statues is being renovated while you watch, each stone form replaced by one a tiny bit older, a tiny bit less refined. You can see the originals, you know, held for posterity in the archive, but that means asking the curator for permission, and his skinless face and cloak of grey discomfort you in a way you cannot quite explain.

 

[Romv]

[X] A Church; there is a priest and congregation, of course, but they are made of wax and wood. True faith left this place behind years ago, and now only the light remains. It streams down from on high, broken and repainted by windows of stained glass that stretch almost to the ceiling, and under its touch you could almost fool yourself into thinking the withered mannequins are strong and vital once again.

[X] A Zoo; you walk between exhibits and around the edge of great enclosures, studying and being studied in turn. Here a horde of rats dig a warren in broken stone, there a flight of pigeons wheel back and forth between a hundred wooden aviaries. There are people all around you, cooing and laughing over the antics of those they came to observe, but they cannot see what you can. The horizon has sprouted bars, and from beyond giants with eyes of fire watch you with an inquisitive gaze.

 

[Ave Anathema]

[X] A Museum; you are a guest here, wandering starstruck through halls lined with portraits and plaques. A hall of statues is being renovated while you watch, each stone form replaced by one a tiny bit older, a tiny bit less refined. You can see the originals, you know, held for posterity in the archive, but that means asking the curator for permission, and his skinless face and cloak of grey discomfort you in a way you cannot quite explain.

[X] A Church

 

[PurposefulZephyr]

[X] A Church; there is a priest and congregation, of course, but they are made of wax and wood. True faith left this place behind years ago, and now only the light remains. It streams down from on high, broken and repainted by windows of stained glass that stretch almost to the ceiling, and under its touch you could almost fool yourself into thinking the withered mannequins are strong and vital once again.

[X] A Zoo; you walk between exhibits and around the edge of great enclosures, studying and being studied in turn. Here a horde of rats dig a warren in broken stone, there a flight of pigeons wheel back and forth between a hundred wooden aviaries. There are people all around you, cooing and laughing over the antics of those they came to observe, but they cannot see what you can. The horizon has sprouted bars, and from beyond giants with eyes of fire watch you with an inquisitive gaze.

 

[No7sHere]

[X] A Zoo; you walk between exhibits and around the edge of great enclosures, studying and being studied in turn. Here a horde of rats dig a warren in broken stone, there a flight of pigeons wheel back and forth between a hundred wooden aviaries. There are people all around you, cooing and laughing over the antics of those they came to observe, but they cannot see what you can. The horizon has sprouted bars, and from beyond giants with eyes of fire watch you with an inquisitive gaze.
[X] A Stage; beyond it, a theatre long since abandoned. Velvet seats stand in long rows, encrusted with webs, dust lies in piles inches thick. Chains of silver and gold hang from your wrists and coil around your neck, and overhead old floodlights halo you in burning light. Your audience is old and emaciated, clad in finery several centuries out of date, and they stare at you with hollow eyes.

 

[Photomajig]

[X] A Court; the walls are decorated with portraits of your parents, smiling down at you. In the jury sit a dozen caricatures, with bloodshot eyes and teeth stained brown from drink. They watch you hungrily, fixated on your every word, while in the judge's box your twin sits and watches your fumbling speech with naked contempt.

[X] A Zoo; you walk between exhibits and around the edge of great enclosures, studying and being studied in turn. Here a horde of rats dig a warren in broken stone, there a flight of pigeons wheel back and forth between a hundred wooden aviaries. There are people all around you, cooing and laughing over the antics of those they came to observe, but they cannot see what you can. The horizon has sprouted bars, and from beyond giants with eyes of fire watch you with an inquisitive gaze.

 

[illhousen]

[X] A Zoo; you walk between exhibits and around the edge of great enclosures, studying and being studied in turn. Here a horde of rats dig a warren in broken stone, there a flight of pigeons wheel back and forth between a hundred wooden aviaries. There are people all around you, cooing and laughing over the antics of those they came to observe, but they cannot see what you can. The horizon has sprouted bars, and from beyond giants with eyes of fire watch you with an inquisitive gaze.

[X] A Museum; you are a guest here, wandering starstruck through halls lined with portraits and plaques. A hall of statues is being renovated while you watch, each stone form replaced by one a tiny bit older, a tiny bit less refined. You can see the originals, you know, held for posterity in the archive, but that means asking the curator for permission, and his skinless face and cloak of grey discomfort you in a way you cannot quite explain.

Shamans are great, we should be one. It means traversing a dangerous twisted reflection of the real world, consorting with various cool spirits, learning about their politics that reflect ecology and sociology of the real world, making small and big deals and, most importantly, throwing Pyramid Head at our enemies like some kind of deranged Pokemon game.

Oh, and Life magic would make as swole, and that's what truly matters in life.

As for Moros, I just have a soft spot for both necromancers and alchemists, and this path combines both, so...

Other options, of course, are also worthy of consideration, though I would warn against going Acanthus. Not because they can't be cool but because writing prophets and seers who can see into past and future more or less at will and rewind time (even in a rather limited fashion) can be hard. With other options being great by themselves, I think we shouldn't add burden to the GM.

 

[Crilltic]

RIP in pieces Deus Pater

[X] A Zoo
[X] A Museum

 

[Waffle]

I'll follow this. I'm not voring because I'm fine with all options. The only reason I'm posting is to nitpick: it's called Chronicles of Darkness, not World of Darkness

 

[BadAtScreenNames]

[X] A Church
[X] A Zoo

Because Obrimos and Thrysus are awesome.

 

[TenfoldShields]

[X] A Zoo; you walk between exhibits and around the edge of great enclosures, studying and being studied in turn. Here a horde of rats dig a warren in broken stone, there a flight of pigeons wheel back and forth between a hundred wooden aviaries. There are people all around you, cooing and laughing over the antics of those they came to observe, but they cannot see what you can. The horizon has sprouted bars, and from beyond giants with eyes of fire watch you with an inquisitive gaze.

There's something just viscerally appealing about the kinda inherent contrast and tension between "I must maintain this mask, I must maintain this persona, I must pretend until even I believe it" that being a transplant in the halls of the privileged means and what being a Thrysus is. All nature red and nature green and getting muscly af and dealing with insane, psychotic spirits who can't be anything but what they are by definition.

Also the shadow is super cool and London's Shadow is like if Silent Hill just completely stopped giving a fuck and let itself go so yeah, six-packs and spirits.

 

[PlatypusofFail]

[X] A Stage; beyond it, a theatre long since abandoned. Velvet seats stand in long rows, encrusted with webs, dust lies in piles inches thick. Chains of silver and gold hang from your wrists and coil around your neck, and overhead old floodlights halo you in burning light. Your audience is old and emaciated, clad in finery several centuries out of date, and they stare at you with hollow eyes.

[X] A Court; the walls are decorated with portraits of your parents, smiling down at you. In the jury sit a dozen caricatures, with bloodshot eyes and teeth stained brown from drink. They watch you hungrily, fixated on your every word, while in the judge's box your twin sits and watches your fumbling speech with naked contempt.

Always preferred these two. Besides mages are at there best when they are abusing prep time and the utility of their powers and both are really good at that.

 

[WolfKit]

[X] A Stage; beyond it, a theatre long since abandoned. Velvet seats stand in long rows, encrusted with webs, dust lies in piles inches thick. Chains of silver and gold hang from your wrists and coil around your neck, and overhead old floodlights halo you in burning light. Your audience is old and emaciated, clad in finery several centuries out of date, and they stare at you with hollow eyes.
[X] A Church; there is a priest and congregation, of course, but they are made of wax and wood. True faith left this place behind years ago, and now only the light remains. It streams down from on high, broken and repainted by windows of stained glass that stretch almost to the ceiling, and under its touch you could almost fool yourself into thinking the withered mannequins are strong and vital once again.

 

[Kingofbooks]

[X] A Museum; you are a guest here, wandering starstruck through halls lined with portraits and plaques. A hall of statues is being renovated while you watch, each stone form replaced by one a tiny bit older, a tiny bit less refined. You can see the originals, you know, held for posterity in the archive, but that means asking the curator for permission, and his skinless face and cloak of grey discomfort you in a way you cannot quite explain.

[X] A Church

 

[Maugan Ra]

*stumbles into thread, looks around blearily*

Oh, so that's what I remember doing at, like, 2am this morning. Hmm.

 

[veekie]

[X] A Museum; you are a guest here, wandering starstruck through halls lined with portraits and plaques. A hall of statues is being renovated while you watch, each stone form replaced by one a tiny bit older, a tiny bit less refined. You can see the originals, you know, held for posterity in the archive, but that means asking the curator for permission, and his skinless face and cloak of grey discomfort you in a way you cannot quite explain.

[X] A Zoo; you walk between exhibits and around the edge of great enclosures, studying and being studied in turn. Here a horde of rats dig a warren in broken stone, there a flight of pigeons wheel back and forth between a hundred wooden aviaries. There are people all around you, cooing and laughing over the antics of those they came to observe, but they cannot see what you can. The horizon has sprouted bars, and from beyond giants with eyes of fire watch you with an inquisitive gaze.